Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (11 page)

“Barik, I don’t think we
should,” Prentin said nervously.

“Shut up, Prent, you’re
such a baby.” Erdun licked his lips and his eyes glinted as he too revealed a
sparring blade. It was a shorter one used for blocking, but it was no less
thick.

Loster looked for a gap
that he could dart through but there was none where their weapons could not
reach him. He twisted around, searching the ground for anything to defend
himself, but there was only the tree, trapping him in so he could share its
misery. He raised his eyebrows and tried to look shocked. “If Jaym finds you’ve
taken those, he’ll give you both an awful beating.”

Barik smiled coldly.
“Funny, that’s what we’re going to do to you.” Before he finished his sentence,
he whipped the wooden sword up so that it cracked against Loster’s chin with a
smack. Loster’s teeth jarred together and he tasted blood in his mouth as he
caught the edge of his tongue. He yelped with pain and fell to his knees,
raising his arms to protect himself, but Erdun had already made it behind him,
and the boy’s blade came slamming down on the back of Loster’s head. He fell
forward and tasted soil, but he didn’t mind for the grass was as soft as a
pillow, and somebody had laid a warm blanket over him. It shielded him from the
angry blows of the boys so that they felt no stronger than a buffeting wind. He
sighed and realised that his headache was gone.

His vision began to
close in, and the darkness took him.

When he woke he was
alone. He opened his eyes to see that he was in a stone chamber, lying on his
back on the cold ground. The room was a dim blue and the only light came from a
hole somewhere high above that permitted a golden column to shine down. He sat
up awkwardly and winced as the bruised muscles of his stomach creaked with
protest. Somewhere deep inside him, bone clicked against bone. He felt his
chest where there was a large swelling below his breastbone.
I must have cracked a rib
, he thought
absently. Oddly, there was no pain. He stood slowly, but it was still too fast
and the world swam around him. He took a deep breath to steady himself then
blinked a few times and looked up.

The room was empty
except for a low altar of black stone that dished in the middle. It was
perfectly centred, and the column of light lanced right into the middle where
there was a yawning black hole as wide around as his waist. Loster took a step
forward and his knee buckled. He fell to the floor in a heap and groggily
rolled to a sitting position. He probed carefully around the knee, hissing with
anticipated pain and then realising that, though it was heavily swollen, he
felt fine. Gingerly he stood again, though he made sure to put his weight on
his good leg. Moving with an awkward shuffle, he edged towards the altar.

“Hi, Los,” said a
familiar voice and Loster froze in his tracks. He spun on his good foot and
almost fell but flung his arms out to stay upright. Behind him stood Barde as
he remembered him: tall, blond, good-looking, with a kind face that promised
wisdom and generosity as he grew older.

“Barde,” he whispered to
himself. “You can’t be here. You’re dead.”

“That’s
why
I’m here!” his brother laughed.
Gods, it felt good to hear that laugh again. It made him feel safe. “Did they
hurt you, little brother?”

Loster blinked and then
looked down at himself. “Uh, yes. At least I thought they did but I’m fine
now.” He shook his head to clear it of the fuzziness clouding his vision.
They must have hit me harder than I
thought.
“This can’t be. You’re not really here.”

“But that’s exactly
where I am, Los. Here with you. Can’t you see?”

“Yes, I see but…” Loster
closed his eyes and counted to three and then opened them again but Barde was
still there, eyebrows raised, looking confused.

“What are you doing?”

“What’s happening? I
don’t understand.” Loster breathed in. It was a ragged breath that only seemed
to fill half a lung, though he sucked in a lungful.

“I’m not sure either,
Los, but I need you to do something for me.” Barde smiled and took a step
forward.

“Yes, what? Anything.”

Barde pointed to the
altar. “You need to look in there.” Loster looked over his shoulder. “Go on. Go
and take a look.”

Loster frowned but did
as he was bid. He turned and shuffled over to the altar of black stone, resting
his hands on the rim. It was very large, as big as a garden pond, and the bowl
was very deep. “I don’t see anything, Barde.” He turned to look at his brother
but he was alone again. His heart sank and he felt suddenly short of breath.

A gurgling sound made
him turn and he twisted back to the altar as a thick black liquid began to
bubble out of the hole in the centre. The iron tang of blood reached his
nostrils and he made to step backwards but his hands were stuck to the stone.
“Barde, help!” he cried, but there was no response. He gave a great tug and
fell backwards, landing heavily on his buttocks. Lifting his hands to his face,
he saw that they were covered in thick, tacky blood. He screamed.

“Los!” Barde called.
“Loster!”

He twisted around and
screamed again. Barde was crawling towards him on the floor, one arm dragging
him forward over the rough stone. His fingernails scratched at the ground and one
of them folded with a ripping sound and was left behind on the floor. His head
was a ruin: it had been crushed downwards so that it resembled a great
V
. His body was split in two, held
together by his pelvic bone, which scraped and scratched at the floor as he
dragged himself along. “Don’t be such a baby, Los,” said Barde from his torn
mouth. One of his eyes had been smashed into jelly but the other hung on a
stalk of muscle and now it turned to look at him.

Loster cried out and
felt the warm rush as the blood spilled over the lips of the altar like a
storm-driven sea to crash around him. It splashed up his body into his eyes
where it burned, and washed into his mouth where it festered, salty and warm.
He screamed louder until he was submerged under a wave and he choked as bitter
blood filled his lungs.

“Los!” came the voice
distantly. “Los!”

He struggled and kicked
and his lungs began to spasm, and suddenly all of his pain came back in a rush.
“Loster! Listen to my voice, Los!” He could feel his swollen knee now, and the
cracked rib, and the puffy bruising around his eyes, and the apple-sized lump
on the back of his head, and still he drank in blood that was not his own.

“Los!” the voice said,
angry now.

Though it took a great
effort, he opened his eyes.

He was not alone. He was
not in a cave nor was he drowning in blood. He lay on a feather pillow on his
own bed and beside him sat his father, Lord Gaston Malix. Barde was a memory
once more.

“You were having a bad
dream, Los. You were awfully loud.” His father’s voice was soft but it held
that threatening tone he knew so well, a silent promise that further noise
would be met with punishment. Loster calmed himself and breathed in deep,
though he only breathed through his mouth. His father smelt of flowers and
perfume but it was a smell that always made Loster feel sick. “Wellop found you
in the backwoods. You’ve been out for two days.” Malix sat awkwardly on the
bed, his fingers toying with the coverlet. “Your mother has been worried, of
course, but I told her you’re strong. You’ll pull through.”

Loster nodded, unsure of
how to respond. Suddenly Malix leaned forward and the boy did his best not to
flinch. That would only make it worse. His father brushed a hand down his
cheek, gently running his knuckles over the purple swelling under one eye.
Loster felt his stomach turn. He swallowed and looked away to hide his shame.

“They really worked you
over, didn’t they, Los?”

It irked him that his
father called him that. It made it seem like they were friends.

“Yes, s—” he broke
into a coughing fit and his father ineffectually patted his back. When he had
recovered, “Yes, sir.”

“Who?” Malix asked
simply.

“I don’t remember.”

Malix pursed his lips
and nodded. “Okay. I understand. You think you’re being loyal. Where then is
your loyalty to me?” Loster opened his mouth to answer but his father answered
for him. “I forbade you from the backwoods. As I did everyone. Am I not your
Lord father?”

“Of course…” Loster
began to answer but fell silent as his father continued.

“It was a simple command
but you have ever found it difficult being my son.”

Loster bit his lip to
still his response. It only would have had two syllables.

“Don’t you see, Los? I
can’t have you meddling around. Not now. You’re not ready to know everything.
Times are difficult here. Taxes are higher than ever and the throne seems to be
occupied by a madman.” He edged closer on the bed and Loster shuffled backwards
until his back hit the wall behind. “We are family, and we have to look out for
one another. I would have thought you’d learned that lesson after what happened
to your brother.”

Loster closed his eyes
and tried to focus on something that made him happy, but he could not think of
anything suitable. Tears tried to force themselves from the corners of his eyes
but he pulled them back with an effort of will.

“I am sending you away,
Los.” Loster’s eyes snapped open. Malix’s voice was sad but a flutter of
excitement had begun to stir in the young man’s stomach. “You shall go away
from here, away from troubles and…” he reached out to rub Loster’s cheek again,
“vicious people. I am sending you with Aifayne. You’re to be a priest, Los.”

Loster blinked in
surprise. And then went stiff as his father leaned forward and planted a
lingering kiss on his forehead. “You leave in the morning,” he said, and then
he was gone.

Loster breathed out
slowly and finally the tears came, stinging the cuts on his face. This time
they were tears of joy.

Callistan ducked as a
rotten piece of fruit smashed against the bars, spraying foul-smelling pulp all
over him.

“Scum!” yelled a man,
his voice lost in the storm of the crowd’s scorn.

“Traitor!” cried
another, flinging something too high so that it sailed clean over the wagon to
land with a splat amongst a baying mob of whores, who cursed and screamed in
anger.

The army had arrived in
Temple the night before, but much to the dismay of the tired, footsore
soldiers, it had been ordered to camp outside the city walls so that it could
enter triumphantly in the morning. The men had been roused before dawn to wash,
polish weapons, brush the rust from shirts of mail, and make themselves as
presentable as possible. Temple was watching and it wanted a show.

The capital of the
Verian Empire was a sprawling city, mostly enclosed by high stone walls faced
in white marble. Twenty years ago, Temple had been a cluster of houses of
worship, all suitably grand and elaborate, but nothing on the mammoth scale of
what they were only a small part of today. Upon defeating the Respini, Illis
had chosen Temple as his capital, and had constructed huge walls around the
city, taking advantage of its position upon a rise in the land. It was a
landlocked city, far from the trade and nourishment that a river could bring,
and as a result it relied on tributes from its outlying sister cities to remain
habitable. But Temple was never intended to be a city of farmers or even
merchants — though there were the usual spill of inns and stores that
could be found anywhere. Instead it was a city of the elite: soldiers and
nobles bored of their country estates, and most important of all, courtiers,
for this was the seat of the Empron and thus the centre of power in Daegermund.
Most of the city was tight, packed housing that bowed in over the streets
between, blocking out the light and keeping the poor in constant night and
filth. Yet even the common folk felt a special pride in their city. Before,
Temple had been a retreat for the pious, but it had since grown rapidly into
its current bloated form. Though they often went hungry and though their
hearths were frequently cold, its people held a certain status, and that kept
them content.

Towards the north of the
city, on the high atoll near the citadel, rose the gold and silver domes of
almost a hundred temples or houses of prayer. Callistan doubted he would see
the High City before he died — for that must surely be his fate —
but every now and again the sun glinted from a panel of precious metal and he
could not help but marvel at the majesty of it.

His morning had begun
slightly later than that of the soldiers, once it was already light. He had
woken to the contents of a latrine bucket being tipped over his head, and had
shivered and retched while they stripped the wooden panelling from his wagon,
replacing it with stout wooden bars. He was a prisoner still, but now he would
be displayed as a trophy of a war won and an enemy defeated.

The creature that bore
his name and wore his skin rode on a tall destrier slightly in front of
Callistan’s wagon. The Doppelganger was dressed in the full battle array of an
officer of the Dalukar: gleaming silver plate armour and a cloak of deep
crimson. It had opted not to wear a helm, presumably so that the crowds that
had come to watch the parade could see the face it had stolen.

Callistan closed his
eyes and tried to drown out the distant roar of the mob. He was a lord and a
well-known warrior, but his life had been taken from him. Soon he would be
hauled before the pitiless faces of men and women he should have known yet bore
no memory of. He had considered attempting escape. The wooden bars that held
him did not look that strong. If he could summon up enough strength, he could
loosen one or two and then wait until they passed an alleyway. He could tumble
over the side and then try and find his way out of the city, back to his
family, wherever they were.

But as soon as the
procession had passed under Temple’s great Certifax Gate, the crowds had pushed
past and stepped over each other just to get a look at the face-stealer, the
enemy who had tried to kill their Lord Callistan. They had come in their
thousands, and each was as filthy and dishevelled as the last, walking evidence
of the suffering and discord sown in a city drained of life to fuel the
machines of war. The waves of hatred had been shocking and had driven Callistan
to a corner of his cage. Then they had begun to throw things: rotten fruit,
stones, even one or two small coins. Callistan doubted that they could afford
to throw money, though they were not throwing it away. Rather they were
spending it, buying his suffering with the sharp edges of crudely made
currency. Even if he could find a chance to jump clear, Callistan knew that
these people would make short work of him. His prison was now the only barrier
from the violence of an untamed populace given a focus for their troubles.

The wagon trundled on
through the packed crowds. Callistan could hear the faraway roars and cheers
from behind him as the soldiers were welcomed home. They were passing through
one of Temple’s many slums, and as a result, the procession had slowed to a
crawl to navigate the narrow, warren-like streets.

Callistan cursed as a
child barely past walking age darted from the crowd to fling a wooden cup of
urine at him. The soldiers who were supposed to be guarding him dutifully
kicked the boy back towards the crowd, but they struggled to keep the mirth
from their faces. “Thought you might need warming up,
noble
Lord,” sneered a burly, red-faced man, probably the boy’s
father. The people around him bellowed with laughter and slapped each other on
the back. Callistan spat and held his tongue. It would be over soon.

After that the
procession picked up speed, arriving before long at a vast cobbled square, in
which a high wooden platform had been built. Though he knew what fate awaited
him, Callistan could not help but despair when he saw the gallows and the
headsman’s block, stained with old blood. Three men stood with their gazes
fixed firmly on their feet, nooses around their necks. There was a fourth noose
but it was occupied. A small but bloated corpse, black with flies, swung gently
in the breeze. Even from this distance Callistan could tell that it belonged to
a woman.
Would that I had died in the
battle,
thought Callistan.

The wagon came to a halt
before the steps that led to the top of the platform. Several soldiers in
crimson armour beat a path through the crowd with long staves and huge
rectangular shields, each emblazoned with the Leaning Man, Illis’ sigil. The
Doppelganger curbed his horse alongside the wagon, dismounting and handing the
beast off to an aide. He stopped at the foot of the steps to watch the
proceedings. A bored looking man was reading aloud from a tablet and gesturing
every now and again at the three men behind him. Each time he pointed, the
crowd booed and hissed.

“Lord Fuller, Master of
the Imperial Purse, accused of witchcraft and sorcery and high treason. The
Empron has learned that you are one of the notorious group of renegades that
call themselves the ‘Sons of Iss.’ Through your position of influence, you did
encourage a state of war within Veria against the Imperial Crown. His Imperial
Majesty calls you traitor and skin-changer and sentences you to death by
hanging.” The crowd roared and a variety of rotting vegetation rained on to the
stage. The bored man grimaced with distaste then continued. “Gabriel Nommis,
Pentilarch of the Seventh Expeditionary Army and Advisor to the Crown, you
stand accused of witchcraft and sorcery and high treason…”

Before long, the
supposed sins of all three men were read out and the crowd was thrumming with
violent anger. Callistan looked again at the men and tried to see past their
bruised and swollen faces and filthy clothes. It was like trying to grab fog.

Sudden clarity hit him
like a bucket of cold water. These were Imperial Council members. Their robes
of deep blue lined in gold were the mark of their power and status. Could they
have caused the rebellion?

“Execero? You may
proceed.” The bored man stepped back and waved forward a short man dressed in
tight-fitting black clothes. His face was hidden by a hood that had eye holes
torn into it. He stepped up to the man called Fuller and seemed to engage him
in conversation for a moment. The condemned man shook his head and spat, all
without looking up from his feet. The Execero shrugged his shoulders and
stepped smartly to a wooden lever on the side of the stage. Without much in the
way of ceremony, he yanked it backwards, and the floor fell out from the feet
of the three men. There was a sickening crack as they came up short against
their ropes and two kicked weakly and then went still, but one kept kicking,
for his neck had not broken as intended. It was Fuller, the Master of the
Purse, and he was a large man with a neck like a bull. It could not stop him
from shaming himself; the front of his robe darkened as his bladder let go. The
crowd laughed and jeered and a cabbage bounced off of the dying man’s chest,
yet still he kicked and struggled, though with less vigour every passing
moment.

The Doppelganger took
this as his cue and began to climb the stairs. As he went, he turned and winked
at Callistan, before spinning to face the crowd and raising a gloved hand for
silence.

“Good people of Veria,
death to all traitors!” he pointed and the crowd roared their approval. “What
news I bring you this day.” A great cheer pounded Callistan’s ears. “The war is
over! Our enemy has been crushed beneath us like an insect!” Again they
screamed their delight, again the Doppelganger raised a hand for silence.
“Though it was not a war without losses. Many brave sons of Veria and Temple
herself lie in the cold ground.” A murmur rippled through the crowd. “Yet do
not weep, gentle mothers, for they are warmed by the knowledge of their
sacrifice. They have bought us victory over those who would see us brought low,
those foolish sons of a foolish city, and so we give thanks.” He dropped to one
knee and bowed his head. The thousands assembled in the square struggled to
follow suit, jostling and pushing each other for the space to kneel down. “To
our brave guardians. May death bring you the rest you seek.”

Several people mimicked
his words. Callistan had to admit, the Doppelganger was a masterful performer.

The Doppelganger stood
and threw his hands high, restoring the party atmosphere to the gathering
“Rejoice now, for we are at peace once again!”

“Thanks to you, milord,”
yelled a distant voice and the crowd took up the chant.

“Call-i-stan!
Call-i-stan!” The Doppelganger waved down the chanting and smiled broadly, like
a proud parent.

“You honour me. Too
much, I fear. I was but one sword among many, though I did my duty proudly.”
There was a cheer. “I am not worthy of such praise. Besides, do you not know? I
had help.” This was followed by hoots and guffaws of laughter as the meaning
sunk in. The Doppelganger clapped his gloved hands for Callistan to be brought
forth.

The cage was flung open,
and two fully-armoured men grabbed Callistan and hauled him roughly up the
stairs. They threw him before the feet of his double, who took a step backwards
and bowed mockingly.

“Behold, my twin!” cried
the Doppelganger.

Callistan struggled to
his knees and did his best to look defiant, whilst every instinct he possessed
quailed and told him to throw himself on the mercy of the crowd. He quickly
glanced over his shoulder. Fuller had stopped kicking now, but he was gurgling
and his face had turned a dark purple colour. It was a stark promise of the
future that awaited Callistan and his neck ached with the thought. He scanned
the sea of faces before him: a fat whore with sagging dugs and a handful of
rotten teeth; a whip-thin boy, his features scarred with the pox; a tall,
grim-faced man in a bloodstained leather apron.
No,
he thought.
They might
see me bleed, but they will not see me break.

Behind him the Doppelganger
continued with his pageantry. “I must confess, good people, that I never knew I
had a twin. Perhaps my mother was busier than I had imagined.” The crowd
roared. “These foul things have infested our noble government at more levels
than I could care to guess.” A soldier gripped Callistan by the hair and drew
him upwards so that the crowd could see his face. “A man as like me as my own
reflection,” the Doppelganger paused theatrically and raised a finger, “and yet
not a man.” A hush fell over the crowd as the truth of what their Lord had said
sank in. “Not a man.” He strolled to the edge of the stage and pulled a small
package from a pouch on his belt. With great drama and a teasing slowness, he
undid the thread tied around the package. Inside was a bloodied finger, still
wet with gore. Callistan wanted to speak out for he knew what was coming, but
the man holding him had drawn a wicked-looking knife and now placed the tip at
his throat.

The Doppelganger held
the severed finger aloft. “This was cut from the hand of the creature behind
me.” He spat. “The thing that wears my face. It looks like it could have been
cut from the hand of any man, does it not?” The crowd fell silent. “But yet…”
The Doppelganger gripped the severed finger between his thumbs and ran the
sharp nail of his thumb up its length. A thin, pearly-white thread that
Callistan recognised as one of the bizarre fingers from the Doppelganger's own
hand fell to the floor. The Doppelganger crouched and picked up the thread,
which flicked and twisted in his hand like a snake. “This is the strength of
their disguise, good people. Human skin concealing something monstrous.” He
flung the snake-like appendage into the crowd who screamed with mock terror.
“Now, observe.” The Doppelganger nodded to the soldier holding Callistan, who
dropped the knife and seized his prisoner’s left arm by the wrist, holding it
high. Then, momentarily letting go of his handful of hair, he stripped away the
filthy rag covering Callistan’s hand. Callistan hissed in pain as the rough
cloth dragged across the stump of his finger, but it was largely for show,
because his focus was elsewhere.